


Modern Times Rock 'N Roll

by thebrightestbird



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: BoRhap Movie References, Casual references to Brian's health issues, Drunken Namecalling, Fake Music Review, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Meta, Mild to strong language, Modern AU, Satire, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 12:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19701265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrightestbird/pseuds/thebrightestbird
Summary: The band is nervously awaiting how their latest album and its first single, "Bohemian Rhapsody," will be received. Meanwhile, Roger and Freddie drag Brian into matchmaking efforts to find John true love.A funny tale of a band called Queen, looking for love and success in the 21st century.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a modern AU and had two ideas: a modern AU Breaky with my usual Freddie/Roger matchmaking shenanigans and a modern review of Queen's work with the band snarking over it. Thus, this wild fic was born.

"We need to get Deacy laid."

Brian’s reading a fascinating article on how badgers are more adventurous than previously believed because they will often explore well beyond their home ranges. This knowledge is extremely important in understanding how well vaccinating works in preventing the spread of bovine tuberculosis.

Annoyed at the distraction, he looks up from his phone to shoot a blistering glare at Roger. "In what way?"

Roger’s unfazed by the glare, instead focusing on Brian’s odd question. "What do you mean, 'In what way?' By finding him someone to hook up with. What did you think I meant?"

Brian looks back at his phone in an attempt to ignore his friend.

Unfortunately, his other friend — and Roger's partner in crime — is here with them.

"Darling, did you think Rog was suggesting one of us do the 'laying'?"

Brian gives up on his article. "No, Fred, I did not."

He’s met with raised eyebrows and amused smiles.

"Please, get to the point of all this," he begs.

Freddie obliges. "We need to find our bopping bassist his soulmate."

"John's always out with someone or has a friend to catch up with. How does he need our help?"

"That's all they are though," Roger explains. "Friends."

"He hasn't found The One yet," Freddie says with a long, sympathetic sigh.

Brian is predictably skeptical of the seriousness of the situation. "He's still young. The youngest, in fact. Why is this such a concern now?"

"Deacy's the old soul of the group," Roger says. "Out of us all, he’s surely destined to marry his best friend and have a small army of children."

Brian ponders the assessment. "I think we all want some form of that. And, no, Freddie,” he holds an arm up to defend from the threat of a pillow to the head, “I don’t mean that in a strictly heteronormative sense.” Freddie puts down the pillow. “Why are you all focusing on Deacy?"

Freddie rolls his eyes as if the answer was obvious. "Because, dear, I am currently on my journey of self-actualization. I need to explore and understand myself better."

"And I don't feel the need for anything deep with anyone," Roger says with a casual shrug.

"What about me?" Brian asks softly, more to himself than the other two.

"You tell us, dear."

"Been busy, I suppose."

Roger scoffs. “That’s utterly lame, Bri. How have you been too busy to find love?”

The discussion is hitting a nerve in Brian, and he can’t hold his tongue. “You’re really so clueless as to how busy I’ve been? How busy _we’ve_ been? Allow me to conveniently recap the past few years. We are all members of the perpetually on-the-verge rock ’n’ roll band called Queen. We have been living in each other’s pockets until quite recently because while we were managing to make some excellent albums, we were being paid a pittance for our work. Meanwhile, I have been working on my Ph.D. in astro-fucking-physics. We finally get a break when we are invited to be the opening act for One Direction on their tour in the States. While there, Roger gets involved in a scandal with Taylor Swift.”

Roger groans at the reminder. “We never even snogged! Harry was being a possessive twat.”

“Yes, we know,” Freddie says, dryly, having heard the excuse a million times already. “You’ll always have the ship name SwiftRogering, however.”

“It’s not even a proper ship name!” Roger whines.

“Cleverer than the alternatives.” Freddie starts counting off on his hand. “RogerTaylorSwift is just lazy. RogerSwift sounds like you married and took her name, which would be a smart move on your part come to think of it. TaylorTaylor sounds like you married and she stupidly took your name. RogSwift sounds like a cleaning product. Tayger sounds like a weapon. And, finally, TayTay Part Deux is awful on so many levels.”

“Why again couldn’t they have simply been TayTay?” Brian asks.

“She dated a Taylor before,” Roger explains.

“The cute wolf boy in the _Twilight_ movies,” Freddie adds.

“Right,” Brian remembers. “Yeah, ‘Part Deux’ is an awful addendum to be stuck with.”

“We didn’t even snog!”

“ _Yes, we know!_ ” Freddie and Brian say in unison.

“Luckily, your scandal that really wasn’t much of one in the first place died before it spread because, frankly, _I_ almost died of hepatitis. After I wasn’t dying, I almost lost my arm. After I didn’t lose my arm, I started finishing our third album. Then I was almost dying again because my stomach exploded. And when I was done almost dying, we were promoting the third album on bloody _Britain’s Got Talent_.”

“Where Rog punched Simon Cowell!” Freddie recalls with glee.

“Wanker,” Roger mutters, unapologetic.

“So, we’re banned from the top talent show in the U.K. but finally have a hit single in ‘Killer Queen’ and the leverage we need to change record labels. New label means we need to hurry and make a new album, and off we went to record far from civilization for much longer than scheduled and over budget. Now, we’re all nervously twiddling our thumbs waiting to see if the world agrees with what we already know, which is how bloody brilliant _A Night at the Opera_ is.”

Brian takes a breath, indicating he’s finished. Roger and Freddie find themselves breathless, as well.

“Well,” Freddie eventually manages to say, “I suppose we have been a _bit_ busy.”

Roger nods in agreement. “No wonder Deacy hasn’t been able to find love.”

“Not just Deacy,” Brian pouts. “ _He_ wasn’t busy almost dying.”

“Oh, darling, it was just twice.”

Brian’s face scrunches, affronted.

“You survived, dear. You’re quite strong and can endure solitude a little while longer. Trust me when I say our delicate Deacy needs to be our priority now. Once he’s sorted, I’m certain true love will fall into place for you, as well.”

Brian can’t fathom Freddie’s rationale, but before he can challenge the notion, Roger cuts him off.

“John should be back any moment from his date. It might be all sorted sooner than we think.”

“He’s on a date now?” Brian asks. “But why did you come to me ranting about how _we_ needed to get him laid?”

“Because _I_ was the one who set him up on the date,” Roger explains. “And _you_ are going to set him up on the next date if this one doesn’t work out. And so is Fred if your date doesn’t work out.”

“And we are to keep trying until Deacy finds his soulmate,” Freddie insists.

“Which isn’t going to be necessary because the bloke I’ve set him up with is absolutely perfect for him.”

Brian can’t help his curiosity. “Who is he?”

“An American actor working on a film in London right now.”

Hearing “American” makes Brian automatically cringe, a shameful reaction given how much the band wants to gain a following overseas as much as in the U.K. and anywhere else, honestly. They surprisingly have a legion of fans already in East Asia, having headlined their own tours and even met BTS (John the K-Pop fanboy was so overwhelmed he threw up afterward).

Still, Roger’s choice of date seems somewhat sketchy. “Explain how an American actor is perfect for Deacy,” Brian demands.

Before Roger can open his mouth, their bassist returns home (without his date, Brian takes note).

“Deacy, dear!” Freddie chirps too loudly in greeting. “We were, of course, simply discussing the weather and not at all plotting your romantic future,” he says in a rush. “How was your evening?”

John couldn’t care less whether they were discussing him or ridiculously were discussing the crummy gray skies. They’re his bandmates. His best friends. Boundaries are nonexistent among the four of them.

(One time, John walked in on Roger helping Freddie shave his back hair. Another time, Roger was using Brian for his height to lift him over a private garden wall to help him swipe a cool gnome that he promptly broke throwing back over the wall. There was also the time all four got so pissed they woke up in their neighbor’s kitchen with a naked mannequin and a dog that wasn’t even the neighbor’s pet.)

John puts his keys in the bowl, acting casual. “Hey, fellas. Nice night in?”

“Quit the coy act,” Roger demands. “How was the date with Joe?”

Brian can’t help scoffing at the name. “Joe? As in ‘Average Joe’? As in ‘G.I. Joe’?”

Instead of Roger responding, John speaks up. “Yes, his parents named him Joseph, a boring biblical name. Much like my parents did.”

Brian looks down properly shamed. “I wasn’t commenting on the biblical … ness.”

“I know, Bri.” John joins his friends in the middle of the room, bringing his hand under Brian’s chin to tilt up so he can see his smile, showing him that he’s not offended. Brian blushes beautifully.

Roger bounces excitedly in his seat. “It’s like fate, right? You two having similar names.”

John rolls his eyes. “That hardly indicates some kind of kismet, Rog.”

“Fine, whatever,” Roger bats the name topic away. “What about everything else? He was great, right? Cute, funny, smart, charming,” he lists in answer to his own questioning without John’s input. “I told you he was great.”

John smiles fondly. “He was indeed all those things. I had a lot of fun at dinner. Probably the funniest person I’ve ever met, I was in stitches for most of the night. And he was so sweet and sincere when he talked about his family and work. It was eerie how much we have in common. He’s great, Rog. You’re absolutely right.”

Roger jumps up from the couch suddenly, arms raised in victory. Freddie has his hands held to his chest, eyes seemingly misty with emotion. And Brian’s white-knuckling the couch cushion looking stricken. (A troubling reaction that John takes a mental note to address later.)

“I’m not seeing him again, though.”

Roger promptly deflates back to the couch. Freddie’s mouth gapes in dismay. And Brian relaxes his grip and breathes a sigh of relief. (Really, what is up with Brian?)

“What the fuck went wrong?!” Roger scream-asks.

“Two things: First, he’s only going to be in England long enough to finish his movie, then he goes back home to New York.”

“Well, we have every app imaginable to help with long-distance sex, darling.”

“That’s not it, Freddie!” John throws a pillow at him. “There are plenty of other reasons not to start a long-distance relationship, and you know it.”

Freddie grunts in reluctant agreement.

“Fine, that’s a passable excuse,” Roger grants. “What’s the second?”

“Well,” John shifts uncomfortably despite the cushiness of their couch, “like I said, we’ve a lot in common: family stuff, similar sense of humor, same opinions. Honestly,” he pauses to clear his throat, avoiding eye contact with any of them, “it was a bit like dating … myself.”

When he hears nothing in response (not even an outraged squawk from Roger), he braves looking back at his friends. Amazingly, they’re sharing the same expression of disbelief. John gets indignant at that. “How are you all so critical of my reasoning? Would any of you want to date yourselves?”

“Ohhh, in a heartbeat,” Freddie responds, quickly followed by Roger’s “That’s my favorite fantasy, actually.”

John looks at Brian when he doesn’t hear an immediate answer. The guitarist seems to be seriously considering the prospect. “You too?!” he accuses.

Brian sheepishly shrugs. “Wouldn’t mind having someone to talk about space and science, you know, to go along with the music,” he admits.

John is suddenly the stricken one. “We talk about smart things a lot,” he says, meekly. “You have me.”

A crooked smile appears, along with a cleverly arched eyebrow. “Do I now?”

Brian and John lock themselves in a heated stare for a few beats, Roger, of course, being the one to interrupt the moment. “Well, I guess it’s Brian’s turn with Deacy then.”

Brian and John break their gazes to throw similar shocked expressions at the drummer.

“Wh-what do you mean, ‘Brian’s turn’?” John asks.

Roger’s mouth spreads wide into a wicked grin. “I mean it’s Brian’s turn to find you a date. What did you think I meant?”

Roger’s question mirrors the earlier one he asked Brian in reference to getting Deacy laid. On cue, Freddie joins the topic. “Did you think Roger meant it was Brian’s turn to do-, uh, I mean, _date_ you?”

Brian holds his breath.

John glares at Freddie and Roger (and sends a cautious glance at Brian). “No, Fred. Of course, not.”

“Well, then,” Roger says, suspiciously smug, “like I said: Brian’s turn.”

Roger and Freddie stare meaningfully at Brian.

Choosing not to acknowledge the meanings, Brian looks at John, their bopping bassist and a dear friend.

“My turn,” he says with confidence.

||

“… Then Brian showed just how much of a generous man he is by giving his seat to me on the bus.”

John finishes off his second glass of wine upon hearing what must be the fourth story about how wonderful Brian is from his date.

The date that Brian set him up with.

Anita seems lovely. Bubbly, expressive, and uninhibited in her thoughts and emotions. She works in the performing arts and is obviously suited for the field.

She also quite obviously has the hots for Brian.

“Brian’s such a kind and gentle soul, isn’t he?” Anita remarks not for the first time.

And John’s answer has always been the same: “He’s not bad.”

Now, he does this not because he really thinks so minimally of his bandmate. Quite the opposite, honestly. As unprogressive as this date is in terms of changing his relationship status, he realizes how much he agrees with Anita’s glowing assessments of Brian’s character. He enjoys egging her on to hear such gems as “Ohhh, but Brian would jump into a burning forest if it meant he could save but one badger” and the like. 

This time, however, John wants to figure out something. “Anita, I’m curious as to how Brian got you to go on this date with me.”

“He just asked,” she says, as simple as that.

“He didn’t talk me up at all? Was there something he said about me that caught your attention to want to meet me?”

“No, nothing of the sort. I’ll admit, when the word date left his perfect lips, I thought he was asking for himself.”

“Uh-huh,” John responds, not bothering to feign surprise or disappointment.

“But then he said your name and asked I do this favor for him, and well, I’d do anything for that man.”

“You don’t say,” he responds dryly as he fills his third glass of wine.

||

Brian is catching up on the latest images from the New Horizons probe out on the farthest outskirts of our solar system, capturing wonderous sights never before seen. He really needs to hurry up with his doctorate so he can be part of this kind of boundary-pushing research.

The front door opening pulls him away from his laptop screen. He’s greeted with another wonderous sight: a very drunk and petulant Deacy.

“Brian Harold May, you oblivious arse!”

The outburst has Freddie sprinting from the kitchen, never wanting to miss out on drama. Roger throws his game controller to the floor after the distraction causes him to get killed in whatever gory game he’s wrapped up in.

Brian’s sat stunned. “What did I do?”

“You absentminded git!” John continues like Brian hadn’t said anything. “You ignorant bastard! You pretentious prat! You confounding, uh, cock?” He’s starting to lose steam. “You bewildering … poodle.”

“Darling, how much did you drink?”

John looks up adorably, counting in his head. “Six-ish glasses of wine.”

“Why are you drunkenly cursing at Brian?” Roger asks.

“Because Anita and I agree he’s fucking fine as hell and sooo stupid smart and plays guitar like a god and deserves all that is good and pure in this world.”

Freddie, Roger, and Brian are dumbfounded.

“John, dear, none of that makes any sense when you were just calling him a vainglorious prick.”

“Oi, he never said that!” Brian complains.

Freddie gives his patented blank face of false innocence ™.

“It does make sense!” John says louder than necessary. “It makes perfect sense because Anita agrees with me.”

“Did you not get along with her?” Brian asks.

“Oh, just the opposite. We got along great.”

“Mate,” Roger places a calming hand on John’s shoulder, “what happened? If you got along great, why are you back home pissed as hell and screaming about Brian?”

“You lot aren’t listening! We got along great. We agreed on everything … everything that had to do with Brian.”

Roger starts connecting the dots. “Your date, whom Brian set you up with, talked about _Brian_ a lot?” He sends an accusatory look at his friend.

“We’ve worked together!” Brian defends. “I help with music for her theater performances. She’s always been kind and friendly to me, if a bit handsy.”

John gives Brian his best drunken glare. “She was flirting with you!”

Brian takes a moment to think back at his past interactions with Anita. “Come to think of it, one time I offered her a ride — and she said she’d, uh, ride me anytime.”

The other three groan and roll their eyes at his naivete.

“Oh my God, Bri, how could you fuck up so badly?” Roger asks.

“I didn’t mean to! Anita’s a great girl. I thought they’d have a good time together.”

John goes demure over Brian’s earnestness. “Well, I did have fun,” he admits. “That’s not the issue. I didn’t drink to make the date tolerable. I’m more of a pensive kind of pissed tonight.”

Brian tries to recall everything John’s said after returning from the date to figure out what he was pensive about. One thing he recalls with crystal clarity. “Did you say you agreed with Anita that I’m fucking fine as hell?”

John scowls hard. “I also called you a confounding cock.”

“I’m sooo stupid smart.”

“Pretentious prat!”

“I play guitar like a _god_!”

“Freddie’s right,” John huffs as he escapes to his room, “you are a vainglorious prick!”

“Who deserves all that is good and pure in this world!” Brian gets out as John slams his door shut.

||

Brian is on the exercise bicycle a little later in the day than he likes. He had woken late and the band had been busy planning for the upcoming tour and giving interviews in promotion of _A Night at the Opera’s_ first single, “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

The song is a grand mixture of styles but has old-fashioned epic rock ’n’ roll at its core. The record company, however, is concerned that it is way too long and kids these days won’t think it’s a “bop.”

Brian tries to put those worries out of his head. He finishes his workout strong and uses his cooldown to post to Instagram to keep himself accountable. He admits in the caption that he almost let himself slack off but regular exercise and one’s health are just as important as meetings and money matters. He tries to be encouraging and thoughtful to his followers, hopeful he can add a little cheer to their day. He signs off with his trademark “-Bri” and sends the video on its way.

“Brian!” he hears somewhere outside his door not more than 5 seconds later. “When are you going to learn to use IG stories for this kind of shit?”

He grabs his towel and goes out into the living room. “Well, Fred, if you didn’t use Instagram to post pictures of cats and stalk Zayn Malik, maybe I’d take your advice.”

Freddie rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother looking up from his phone, likely in either of the aforementioned tags.

“Where’s Rog?” Brian asks.

“Helping Deacy get dressed for his date.”

“Another one?”

“Since the one you set him up on went sooo well,” Brian winces, “the responsibility of finding our dearest Deacy true love has fallen upon my shoulders.”

“Who’d you find?”

Freddie’s face splits wide in one of his rare, full-blown grins. “Oh, you’ll see. He’ll be here any minute to pick Deacy up. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

Well, that was overtly sinister. Brian thinks quickly to foil whatever plot Freddie has concocted. “Gee, Fred,” he snaps his fingers to make his friend finally look up at him, “wish I could stick around to meet the chap, but as you can see I’ve just finished my workout and need to shower.”

He turns to make a quick getaway only to be blocked by Roger and John emerging from the hallway.

Freddie gasps. “Roger, what on God’s green earth did you do to Deacy?”

“I dressed him?”

“In fucking white satin trousers and a paisley shirt? What is this, the ’70s?”

“I kinda like it,” John admits.

“Oh, you would!” Freddie spits out.

Of course, the front door buzzes at that moment. John shrugs and tries to move toward the door.

Freddie grabs him. “Nope, this won’t do. Into my room. I’ll find you something. Brian, answer the door.” He looks hard at the man to reinforce how serious he is that Brian be the one to do it. “Roger, be my witness to it all.”

With those instructions, he drags Deacy away. The door buzzes again. Roger looks at Brian expectantly.

“Uh, Rog? Do you know who Freddie set John up with?”

“No clue. Freddie just said they have everything that Deacy’s looking for.”

Damn it, Brian’s really intrigued now. With one more buzz, he finally goes to open the front door as commanded.

Brian’s initial thoughts upon seeing the stranger are the usual superficial cataloging of traits. He starts from the bottom. Fancy trainers. Slim-fitting dress trousers. Long legs. Dull but respectable sports coat. Tad too many buttons undone on dress shirt. Clean-shaven. Could be considered a handsome face.

When he reaches the hair, his brain stutters.

“Hello! I hope I’m not too early. I’m Gwilym, a friend of Freddie’s. Here to take out John.”

Brian barely hears any of that. He can’t seem to form words, utterly dumbstruck, only able to subconsciously touch his hair like he's looking into a mirror.

Roger notices his lack of response and approaches prepared with a greeting. He immediately notices what has the guitarist paralyzed. “Umm, I’m sorry. Brian’s usually more curly-, I mean, uh, courteous.” He resorts to shoving Brian out of the way to allow the man to come in. “Did you say your name is Gwilym? I’m Roger. Nice to meet you.” They shake hands. “And this stunned giraffe next to me is Brian.”

Brian has enough muscle memory to know that he’s to shake hands with the man after being introduced.

“John should be out any moment,” Roger explains. “Freddie’s helping him get dressed because, apparently, the world is not ready for satin trousers to be fashionable again.”

“That’s quite all right, I can wait. I’m glad to get this chance to meet you two. Especially you, Brian.”

“Oh?” Brian manages to squeak out in inquiry.

“Yeah! You know, I play guitar myself.”

“Of course, you do,” Roger half mumbles.

“Play in a Led Zeppelin cover band. Though, I don’t have as much time as I’d like for it with my work.”

“Which is?” Roger prompts.

“Satellite engineer with the UK Space Agency.”

Roger hazards a look at Brian. He’s looking a bit green, yeah. “You’re a literal rocket scientist?”

“So to speak,” Gwilym shrugs.

Roger really shouldn’t ask more given how Brian looks on the verge of tears, but Freddie found this gem of a date for just this moment, so he better make the most of it. “I suppose that means you have a doctorate in something.”

“Two, actually.”

Brian’s mouth soundlessly forms the word “two” in disbelief.

Roger feels the need to pump up Brian’s qualities too. “You know, Brian here is diligently working on his doctorate in astrophysics while being the lead guitarist — who writes his own music, by the way — in our quite super successful rock group.”

“I built my own guitar,” Brian finally says something (to Roger’s relief; he was starting to think the man was having a stroke).

“He did! It’s fucking badass too.”

“That’s brilliant! I wish I had time to build my own guitar.” Gwilym seems genuinely impressed, and Brian lets himself smile a little smugly. “But, like I said, I build rockets for a living.”

Roger winces and girds himself for the possibility of Brian trying to choke Gwilym to death and assume his identity. To his relief, he won’t be hiding any bodies tonight as Deacy and Freddie finally come out to the living room then.

Deacy’s changed into jeans and a blue T-shirt covered with a black leather jacket. Roger thinks the bassist looks exceedingly handsome in the simple ensemble.

And by the awed looks of Brian and Deacy’s date, they’re thinking the same.

“Gwil! Darling, I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It’s no trouble, Fred. I’m honored you set this whole night up. You’re stunning, John. I’m excited to meet you.”

John does a comedic back-and-forth of his head between Brian and Gwilym. “Uh, th-that’s nice of you to say. I’m pleased to meet you, as well. I didn’t have much to go on about you since Freddie’s been a bit mysterious about it all.” He looks at the singer accusingly.

Freddie’s patented blank face of false innocence ™ is firmly in place. “Dear, I wanted you to be completely unbiased by my glowing remarks. However, I must tell you that his band’s rendition of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ brought me to tears. Also, Gwil has a 10-minute guitar solo that will give you chills.”

Brian emits a low, agonizing noise like a wounded animal.

“Look at the time!” Roger says as cheerily as possible to distract Gwilym and cover up the sound. “You two should be on your way, yeah?”

Gwilym nods. “It’s been wonderful meeting you all. Roger, Brian,” he shakes their hands once more, ever polite. “I’ll see you later, Freddie?” The singer blows a kiss and gives a wink in answer. Gwilym then turns to John with the most besotted look. “Shall we?”

John gives a meek wave goodbye to his bandmates and leads his date out the front door.

When the door is firmly closed, Roger immediately turns Freddie to face him. “What the fuck, Freddie?! Where did you find that bloke?”

“I get around, Rog,” he dismisses with a shrug.

“But he’s like,” Roger pauses to get just the right description, “a _super_ Brian. Like, he’s got the same powers as regular Brian but with more scholastic degrees, bouncier curls, muscle tone-.”

“I work out,” Brian weakly defends himself and scrunches his face at the reminder of how sweaty he is. (He groans inwardly realizing he met John’s stupid date looking a mess.)

“You could stand to do some push-ups, darling.”

“I think he might even be a little bit taller,” Roger continues as if no one interrupted.

Brian’s had enough. “I’m going to take my shower,” he turns away, “and then do a fuck-ton of studying.”

Freddie and Roger watch their friend walk dejectedly into his room.

“Maybe we went too far with this one,” Roger wonders. “I mean, what if Deacy ends up actually liking Gwilym?”

“Have faith, dearie,” Freddie reassures. “John knows what he wants.”

||

John comes home after midnight expecting everyone to be in their rooms. Instead, he sees the kitchen light on and investigates.

Brian’s hunched over his laptop with various papers and books spread to either side. “What’s got you up like this?”

The man startles, marking a jagged scrawl on the paper. “Shit, Deacy, I didn’t hear you come in.”

John goes to sit next to him. He takes a peek at the paper and computer screen. “You’re working on the tour plans?”

Brian rubs his tired eyes. “Yeah, we’re already so far behind schedule with them. Those special lights you want are going to need extra time to be ordered.”

“It doesn’t have to be those lights. They were just a suggestion.”

“No, Deacs. You’re absolutely right about them. They’re the most energy efficient and won’t cook us alive like those pizza oven lights we tried.”

John smiles crookedly, pleased his ideas are being embraced. He’s not so pleased to see that he’s added to his friend’s stress, however. “What’s got you so wound up?”

Brian heaves a sigh. “This album could make or break us, Deacy.”

“We’ve made albums before. We’re still around.”

“This one’s special, you know. We dared to be different in so many ways. Different from our past stuff, different from everyone else out there.”

John nods. “And you’re proud of that, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then that’s all that matters. All of us are so proud of this record. More importantly, we loved making it together. So, whether or not the album is a hit, we’ll keep at it as long as the love is there. Success or failure, we’ll have one another.”

John can tell that some of his sentiment has eased the tension in Brian. Not totally, though. Brian wouldn’t be Brian if he’s not fretting over something.

The guitarist shakes himself out of his funk and takes stock of John’s presence. “What are you doing back? When you didn’t return around 10, I assumed things went, uh, _really_ well.” He looks back at his laptop to avoid John’s eyes.

“It did go well,” John admits. “Dinner, movie, drinks. Gwilym was an absolute delight the entire night.”

Brian jabs his enter key harder than necessary. “Is that right?” he grumbles.

John smirks at the adorkable man’s aggravation, sweeps an adoring gaze over the handsome profile. “Yeah,” he sighs, “I think I’m in love.”

“What?!” Brian jerks his head up in shock.

John takes advantage immediately by planting his lips against Brian’s frown. He stays put until he feels the man’s lips finally lock into place with a satisfying moan. A hand fists his T-shirt to pull their bodies closer, and John brings his hands behind the mop of curls to deepen the kiss even further. He feels Brian’s tongue brush against his, making John whimper and encouraging Brian to do it again. They kiss and kiss, breathe in each other, taste and get their fill. After the years of flirting and pining, they take their time with this because it’s so long overdue.

Once they do break, John brushes their noses together and nuzzles Brian’s face as best he can while looking him in the eyes. “Gwil was lovely and doting, but he was just a reminder of how much I want you.”

Brian’s big, toothy smile is blinding. “You sure? I’ve been told I’m an oblivious arse.”

John snorts, giddy over having this now. “Not so oblivious now, yeah?”

Brian solemnly nods in confirmation. Without taking his eyes off John, he closes his laptop firmly and gets up from the table, taking the bassist’s hand to pull with him. He turns off the kitchen light and leads John to his room, kissing him hungrily once they’re past the threshold, and kicking the door closed.

||

Freddie is the first to wander into the kitchen in the morning. Promotion for “Bohemian Rhapsody” and the new album has the band sticking to rising early without fail. (Most would think he’s the one of the four who’s bad at this, but it’s actually Brian who constantly doesn’t hear his alarm, fuck-you-very-much.)

He’s surprised by the mess on the table that greets him. As he wonders whose mess exactly, he practically pisses himself as the beginning of “In the Lap of the Gods” comes blaring from somewhere under the assorted papers. He shifts everything about to find the source: Brian’s rose-gold iPhone. Interesting choice of alarm, Freddie muses. Roger’s falsetto probably could wake the dead. How the _hell_ is Brian still the late riser?

Freddie hits dismiss on the alarm and passcodes in to check for any more alarms that he might need to take care of. (Brian told him the passcode as backup because the silly man can be absentminded about the most basic things.) Since he’s on the phone anyway, he starts his morning routine of hate-reading music reviews while turning on the coffee machine and filling the tea kettle.

He’s pleased to find that _Rolling Stone_ has finally released its review of _A Night at the Opera._ The publication has always been particularly bitchy toward the them. This should be a fun read.

As the article loads, Freddie hears some soft giggles and murmurs and looks up to see John and Brian walking into the kitchen practically glued head to toe. John’s hands are on Brian’s hips guiding his backward walk; Brian’s long arms are wrapped entirely around John’s upper body. John collapses Brian into the first available chair and quickly sits on his lap, unwilling to allow even a moment of separation.

Oh, this is gonna be a glorious day.

“Good morning, lovebirds!” Freddie chirps with his most saccharine tone.

“Jesus, fuck!” John squeals as he turns away from Brian’s lips.

“I suppose I don’t need to ask how your date went, darling,” he says as he takes a seat at the table with them.

“Umm, yeah,” John buries his face bashfully in Brian’s neck. “Th-thanks for everything last night, Freddie.”

The singer gives a serene smile. “Anything for my boys.”

Roger putters into the room then, a cliché of a non-morning person, yawning and rubbing a tired eye. “Coffee, where?” he eloquently asks. He’s awake enough to take notice of the soft look on Freddie’s face and his other friends’ especially close seating arrangement. “Huh, so that’s sorted.”

With nothing more needing to be said, the drummer goes to fetch his longed-for coffee.

Brian huffs at Roger’s sedate reaction to the change in the band’s dynamics. He supposes a shift from friends to lovers isn’t going to make that much of a difference, at least not with them. They’re all still together, still Queen. Unlike their time in the studio, no hysterics or drama are required in this situation.

Since that’s “sorted,” as Roger put it, Brian turns his attention to the mess he left on the table. “I’m sorry, Fred, leaving all this in the way.”

Freddie waves off the apology. “Oh, you had better things to do.” He looks meaningfully at John, still in Brian’s lap, and smirks. “By the way, Deacy, you okay sitting like that after the night you’ve had?”

“Freddie!” Brian shrieks.

“Hahaha!” Roger cackles, still working on getting his coffee just right.

John, however, is surprisingly calm, looking mildly amused. “Oh, I’m completely comfortable. Although, I suppose I should be checking on Brian. How are you holding up, babe?”

Roger promptly spits out his first gulp. Freddie’s jaw drops, eyes wide with astonishment.

And Brian groans, looking at John with faux disappointment. “You’re going to be the death of me, love,” he says in his huskiest tenor.

John tries not to swoon over the use of the pet name, desperately holding on to the smugness he felt from shocking the others, but damn Brian. The sneaky bastard hugs him tighter, and John’s resolve crumbles, falling just that little bit further for the man.

“As adorable as you two are,” Freddie segues, “I have important reading to finish, and we have yet another eventful day of promotional appearances.”

They collectively whine at the reminder.

Roger finally joins them at the table. “What’cha reading?” he looks at the phone in Freddie’s hand.

“The _Rolling Stone_ review of our album.”

“Ugh, Fred, why do you torture yourself with that garbage?” Brian asks.

“It’s not torture; it’s payback,” Freddie insists. “If people are going to make their living by tearing apart our hard work, then they deserve to have their work derided in kind.”

The others murmur their agreement.

“And this one’s a real, uh, _winner_.” Freddie clears his throat and begins quoting. “ ‘The British rock band pretentiously called Queen is set to release its fourth album, even more pretentiously titled _A Night at the Opera_.’ ”

“The writer obviously means clever and mistakenly thinks that’s the meaning of pretentious,” John remarks.

“Clearly,” Freddie agrees. Roger and Brian snicker. “They go on to call us unknowns and educate the readership on who each of us are, sourly diminishing Rog’s brilliant vocal range as something ‘between sounding like his throat was scratched up by a cat to sounding like his balls are in a vice.’ ”

“I’ll put _their_ balls in a vice,” Roger grumbles. “And if they don’t have balls, I’ll put something else in a vice.”

Freddie rubs his back soothingly. “They call us a ‘feckless foursome.’ How cute, alliteration, the laziest of writing techniques. The review takes time to shit on our first two albums, how thoughtful. Then they say ‘Killer Queen’ was the only good song on _Sheer Heart Attack_ , ‘a sad fact since the song disgustingly tries to’,” he scrunches his face in disbelief, “ ‘legitimize prostitution’?”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Great way to sound like you’re righteous by picking on something involving sex. Just brilliant, this one.”

“Queen doesn’t do logic, whatever that means,” Freddie continues, “and the new album ‘fails on all levels.’ I bet this reviewer can’t even play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ on _any_ instrument. And they think they have the right to call our album an absolute failure.”

“Fucker,” Roger mutters.

“Ohhh, goody, here’s a part calling me out for having faith in my art by not changing ‘Bo Rhap.’ They call the song ‘a sick tale of violence that places sympathy with a murderer.’ ”

John scoffs. “It’s a story! Songs can tell stories just as well as books. What a douche.”

“Douche, indeed,” Freddie agrees. “This reviewer really doesn’t get the power of songs. That’s clear from their track-by-track commentary.”

Brian cringes. “If they hate ‘Bo Rhap’ that much, I can’t imagine what the review says about ‘ ’39’ and ‘The Prophet’s Song.’ ”

“Umm, so,” Freddie takes a deep breath before revealing the sharp criticism, “they call you ‘a second-rate Ed Sheeran’ and think ‘Prophet’ is about politics and not the terrifying nightmare you had.”

Brian’s mouth gapes. “But that’s-, I mean, how could they even come to that conclusion?! Like, huh? And nothing against Ed, but _really_?!” He sighs, disillusioned. “I think I’m going back to bed.”

“No, you aren’t,” John stays firmly in his lap. “Don’t you dare let the haters get to you. Those songs are absolute masterpieces.”

“But Deac-.”

“No buts,” John insists. “Fuck them, okay? Repeat after me: Fuck. Them.”

Brian purses his lips stubbornly at first, but John’s insistent stare finally wins out. “Fuck ’em,” he confidently proclaims.

John rewards him with a swift, firm kiss and turns back to Freddie. “What about me? I can take it.”

“Well, dearie, they don’t have much to say at all about you.”

“What?”

“They can’t be bothered to google your name, apparently.”

“Huh,” John breathes through the sting of that. He was serious about being able to take such criticism, his “fuck them” mantra on repeat in his head. “We decided the second single is going to be ‘You’re My Best Friend,’ right, Freddie?”

The singer smiles in encouragement. “Absolutely, darling.”

“Good,” John nods his head, satisfied. “I’m sure they’ll learn my name real soon then.”

Roger grabs the phone from Freddie.

“Oh, no, darling, don’t-.”

“I just want to see what the asshat has to say about my song.” The screen’s currently showing the end of the article. “Huh, so we’re Panic! At The Disco knockoffs now.” He looks up at his mates with genuine amusement. “I was getting tired of the weak Coldplay comparisons.” He skims back up. “Cheap jab at ‘Good Company’s’ ukulele.” More skimming. “Kind of agree with the ‘Sweet Lady’ criticism, not gonna lie, Bri.” The guitarist rolls his eyes. “Ah, here’s ‘I’m In Love With My Car’.”

The three other men in the room hold their breaths, preparing for the worst.

And the phone goes smashing to the floor.

 _“ ‘ODE TO COPULATING WITH ONE’S CAR’!_ What kind of congenital, miscomprehension of rock ’n’ roll is this outdated rag trying to peddle? The _bitterness,_ I mean, it’s like they invented it. I almost pity them. They really _suck_.”

“Are you finished?” Brian blurts out, not caring whether Roger really is finished with his rant. “Because that was MY FUCKING PHONE you just smashed!”

Roger’s mouth drops in a soundless “oh.” “Uhh, well, you were long overdue for an upgrade anyway,” he weakly defends.

“Which I guess you will be paying for, am I right?”

“Errr,” he slowly rises from the table, “I don’t think Apple needs any more money. You know, it’s long overdue that we rid ourselves of the tyranny of global conglomerates and the technological albatrosses that numb us …”

Brian ignores Roger’s babbling. “Deacy, would you mind terribly getting up so I can kill Roger?”

“Huh?!” Roger squeaks.

“No, I’ll just make us a quick breakfast then,” John replies. “Make sure you snap his neck cleanly; you don’t want him to suffer.”

As soon as John hops up, Roger sprints out of the kitchen, Brian hot on his heels.

“You’re dead, Taylor!”

“Come on, Bri! I was doing you a favor! Rose gold is for old people!”

||

After Brian and Roger are done acting like children — and finish a breakfast of cheese on toast — the bandmates get dressed and head out the door to start their long day.

Just as they reach the lifts, Freddie’s phone goes off. “Miami, dear, make it quick. You don’t want us to be later than we already fashionably are.” A lift door opens as he quiets to listen to their manager. “You’re joking?! No fucking way!!!”

The door closes and they start their descent. Roger, John, and Brian crowd Freddie, curious as to what has him so ecstatic.

“Miami! Did I lose you? Fuck, the call dropped.”

“Freddie, what’s going on?” Roger asks. “What did he say?”

The singer swallows away dryness in his throat, excitement leaving him breathless. “ ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is number 1.”

“What? Number 1?” John questions. “Where, what chart?”

“All the charts, not just here,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “but _everywhere_! Fuck, we’re Beyonce-level famous! Darlings, we did it!”

The significance of the news finally hits all of them, and they start jumping up and down in excitement, screaming and hugging each other.

And then the lift groans and shudders to a stop.

The four men freeze all jubilant activities at once, nervously looking at one another.

“What just happened?” Brian asks.

“We really shouldn’t be jumping in a moving lift,” John explains.

“Fuck,” Freddie panics, “the number 1 group in the world is going to suffocate in this damn lift.”

“Of course, we’re not,” Brian soothes.

Roger smirks wickedly. “Well, if we do die,” and as he says this, all of the bandmates realize what dumb thing he’s going to finish with. Because there is only one thing to say when you’re in such a situation and have reached a professional peak: “At least we’ll go out on top.”

(“No, Brian! You can’t kill him for a dad joke!” “Yes, darling, we need him for now. Kill him after the tour.”)

-end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the entire fake Rolling Stone review. Yes, I actually wrote the whole thing.
> 
> Hope this one was fun. Thanks for reading!


	2. Fake Review of A Night at the Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rolling Stone review in its entirety. Fun fact: I wrote this part first before I wrote the ending of the story where the boys read it. Also, this is satire. I'm no hater. Enjoy!

The British rock band pretentiously called Queen is set to release its fourth album, even more pretentiously titled _A Night at the Opera_.

If Queen doesn’t sound familiar, don’t worry. You’re not alone. The ridiculously named Freddie Mercury is lead vocalist and pianist. Brian May is the lead guitarist and a candidate for shampoo ads. Roger Taylor is the drummer with the voice that oscillates between sounding like his throat was scratched up by a cat to sounding like his balls are in a vice. And then there’s the bass player.

The feckless foursome’s previous efforts, the unimaginatively titled _Queen_ and _Queen II_ , were out of touch with the 21st century. Hell, they were out of touch with reality. Songs about fairies, ogres, Jesus, a king rat, and whatever “Seven Seas of Rhye” was about (maybe Poseidon, I don’t even know) are clearly the products of pathetic “Dungeons & Dragons” obsessions.

The band mostly left the overwrought songs behind with _Sheer Heart Attack_ , this time settling for lameness. The only exceptional track was “Killer Queen,” a sad fact since the song disgustingly tries to legitimize prostitution.

After the modest success of the third album, logic would dictate that the next album would follow a certain formula to replicate the success. Logic, however, has no place with a band called Queen. I have listened to ANATO a grand total of one and half times, and I can confidently say that it fails on all levels.

One glaring failure is this album’s no less than THREE jaunty Vaudeville-style tracks. For a band that touts good ol’ fashioned rock ’n’ roll, what were they thinking? Maybe there’s an untapped audience of time travelers from the turn of the 20th century. For Queen’s sake, there better be.

The primary failure of _A Night at the Opera_ is its first single, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Where to even start? This clash of musical genres is the brain child of the lead singer. According to the rumor mill, Mercury wouldn’t budge on his “vision,” refusing to cut the track down from its bloated 6 minutes and keeping the operatic part a nightmare of overdubs using just the three singers of the group instead of graciously giving some backup singers much needed employment. The parts of the song that are actually comprehensible tell a sick tale of violence that places sympathy with a murderer. Meanwhile, I don’t understand the other lyrics, and things I don’t understand certainly should be treated with suspicion and callously dismissed.

Now, let’s go track by track to get a thorough sense of Queen’s latest disappointment.

Track 1: “Death on Two Legs/Dedicated to …”: A petty diss track to the band’s previous label, who I’m sure treated them well and paid them what they’re worth.

Track 2: “Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon”: How dare Queen encourage laziness? Also, Sundays are for God. Get your asses to church.

Track 3: “I’m in Love With My Car”: Queen made the smart business move to release “Bohemian Rhapsody” on a 7-inch vinyl to dupe Starbucks hipsters into wasting money on retro crap when they can listen to the song for free on multiple streaming services. However, they made the not-so-smart move of putting this ode to copulating with one’s car on the B-side. Seriously, what the fuck?

Track 4: “You’re My Best Friend”: Sentimental drivel that surely will not be a hit because it was written by that bassist whose name I can’t be bothered to google.

Track 5: “ ’39”: Guitarist May wrote this nonsense, clearly trying to be sophisticated and deep, but instead sounding like a second-rate Ed Sheeran.

Track 6: “Sweet Lady”: Another baffling song by May, it includes winning lyrics such as, “ _You call me sweet like I’m some kind of cheese._ ” Wow.

Track 7: “Seaside Rendezvous”: Meet your next oversaturated earworm. The fake horn noises will haunt you for days.

Track 8: “The Prophet’s Song”: This 8-minute behemoth is a chipper tale of how humans ignore clear signs of trouble and therefore are implicit in our own demise. It’s obviously a poorly veiled political statement, something that has no place on a rock ’n’ roll album simply for the fact that music has no ability to sway opinions or inspire action. Also, the guitarist was clearly on drugs when he wrote this.

Track 9: “Love of My Life”: A forgettable ballad. Trust me, it definitely won’t unify stadiums of people into singing as one in a beautiful moment of harmony.

Track 10: “Good Company”: This song is absolute proof that the ukulele does not rock.

Track 11: “Bohemian Rhapsody”: I’ve already said my peace with this one, but I’ll leave one last thought. If you want a song you can crank up in your car and bang your head to, this ain’t it. Try something from Aerosmith.

Track 12: “God Save the Queen”: “You know what this anthem needs? Electric guitar,” said no one _ever_.

In summary, Queen is another Panic! At The Disco knockoff, a sort of low-tech Muse, a poor man’s Imagine Dragons, that will surely be forgotten in our sophisticated, modern times, never to be cherished by generations to come.


End file.
